Identity
by The-Bad-W0lf
Summary: When John can't cope with Sherlock's death, he sits on his bed with a gun and is about to pull the trigger, when a mysterious pocket watch that he's had for a while but doesn't remember getting spikes up his curiosity.


**AN: Okay, this is my first time ever writing fanfiction and my first time ever writing Sherlock. I wrote this in about an hour, so I'm sorry if the characters might seem OOC, but I tried my best. Not sure if I'll continue this.**

**Identity **

By: The-Bad-W0lf

(Comfysocks101 on tumblr)

He watched as the paramedics carried away his dead best friend. He was completely dejected because his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, could not be _dead_.

Exactly six months had gone by, and John Watson sat on his chair all alone in the dark and lonely living room of 221B Baker Street. Six months since that tragic day and John felt like it had happened just yesterday. He still wasn't over the fact that he would never get to see Sherlock again. Sherlock would never sit for hours on his chair, in his mind palace, thinking away; never make another rude but brilliant deduction, never piss off Mycroft by asking how his diet was going, never make another insulting retort at Anderson, never blow up stuff for his 'experiments', his face would never again light up after receiving a triple murder case.

Never.

The former army doctor would never again spend a second running around London alongside his best friend when solving those cases that he got a thrill out of.

He never thought he would say this, but he missed finding Sherlock's 'experiments' all over the kitchen. The human body parts in the fridge, pantry, or microwave.

John wasn't managing so well after that day. He completely shut everyone out. He wouldn't leave the house, not even for work, somehow the rent was always paid and Mrs. Hudson had not kicked him out. That of course, probably had something to do with Mycroft. When Lestrade tried getting him out, he refused, yelling at him to get out and never come back and slamming the door on his face.

Mrs. Hudson would knock on his door, bringing baked goods that she made, hoping to distract John by spending the afternoons with him drinking tea and talking about mundane things that wouldn't remind John of _him_.

The very few who talked to John, now saw a very fragile man with bags under his eyes, who stared ahead with a blank expression, who answered like a robot. He only answered what was asked, but never continued with the conversation. It was as if he didn't want them there. He just wanted to be left alone.

Eventually, people gave up trying converse with him, but made sure someone checked up on him in case he tried to take his own life.

One day, John couldn't take it anymore. He was going to end it. End it once and for all.

He found his gun and sat on his bed. He was ready to do this. He couldn't handle this pain anymore, for he missed Sherlock and longed to be with his best friend. As he put the gun on his temple and was about to pull the trigger, John looked down and saw the corner of a box sticking out from under his bed. For some odd reason, John decided to lower the gun, take the box out, and open it.

It contained the usual boring stuff. Letters, papers, bills that were all exceptionally boring.

Except one thing.

An old pocket watch that he didn't remember where he got it from. It was strange; he'd had that watch for a while now, but never remembered getting it. He could never get it open either, but he kept it out of curiosity. This watch was very strange. Every time he'd hold it, he felt something strange, like as if he were a different person. Sometimes he'd even get short glimpses of an old, blue police box. But those things aren't around anymore. Sometimes he'd even get a flash of people that he had never seen in his life, but they were all mouthing one thing:

'_Doctor.'_

At first, he thought they had been previous patients of his, but those faces weren't familiar. He was sure he'd remember at least seeing them once in his life, but John did not.

John now stared at the watch, perplexed at it. It was a curious little thing, but now that he kept looking at it, he was enticed by it. There was something telling John that he had to open the watch, and he was going to do it. Have it be the last thing he'd do before he left this world.

He tried many things, like a screwdriver and a hammer to get it open, but none worked. It was as if the watch didn't want to be opened because it was hiding something. After what seemed like a million attempts to get it open, John finally gave up and tossed the watch aside. He grabbed his gun and once again, put it on his temple. These were his lasts seconds of life. His last seconds breathing. As he was taking his last breath, and pulling the trigger, the watch clicked. John stopped and looked at it. It seemed it was opened. He put the gun on his bed and grabbed it. He held it in his hand for a minute.

John opened the watch.

* * *

Sherlock was back. After three years, he had taken down the last of Moriarty's web and now he was returning. He was finally coming back to his old life alongside his only friend, John. Of course, he didn't expect the reunion to be easy, but he was sure he could get John to listen to him for a minute so he could explain everything.

He couldn't wait to go back. Back to sitting for hours on his chair, thinking away in his mind palace. To making deductions again, to pissing off Mycroft by asking about his diet. To insulting Anderson on his intelligence, and to going back to his experiments.

But most of all, he couldn't wait to go back to John.

His appearance had changed, but not by much. His hair was a bit longer and he had gotten skinnier due to the lack of nourishment that he got. John usually made sure he ate, but three years without him didn't really ensure he'd eat something.

When the cab pulled up to Baker Street, Sherlock rushed out and paid the cab driver. He stood in front of the door for a few seconds and then knocked.

When Mrs. Hudson opened the door, she was utterly aghast at the sight. After briefly explaining that he wasn't dead, he rushed upstairs, leaving behind a crying Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock opened the door to the flat, determined to face John and make the explaining as easy as he possibly could. The flat seemed to be empty with no sign of John. He searched the place, calling for him but he wasn't there.

Outside of the opened door stood Mrs. Hudson. She watched as Sherlock searched and searched for his flat mate. A look of misery was on her face, while she cried and cried.

"Mrs. Hudson, where is John?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh, Sherlock…" she replied, her voice cracking.

"Mrs. Hudson, where is he, is he out?" he said, as a look of bewilderment crossed his face.

Mrs. Hudson could stop her crying. She wasn't able to speak any further, so she just shook her head. Sherlock ran out of the flat, got a cab and headed to Scotland Yard. He was sure he'd get some answers there. If not, he'd force answers out of someone.

When he entered Scotland Yard, he got many perplexed looks. Everyone was astonished at the man who had been supposedly dead for three years now. He paid them no mind and headed straight to DI Lestrade's office. He needed an explanation.

The three people in there stood flabbergasted. Their eyes wide, mouths hung open and coffee in their hands. Donovan, Anderson and Lestrade were completely astonished. When Sally dropped her coffee, it seemed like they all snapped out of a trance.

"Oh my God…" whispered Donovan as she put a hand on her mouth.

"Sherlock!" exclaimed Lestrade, "but how can this be? You're dead!"

"That's what I wanted you to believe, now tell me, where is John?" he said, "he's not at the flat, and apparently isn't out. At least that's what I could make out of Mrs. Hudson."

"John?" Lestrade said in disbelief, "Sherlock…John's been missing for two and a half years now."

* * *

It had been almost a year now. Eight months, and Sherlock had nothing to work with. No leads, no signs; clues that could tell him where John had gone. Sherlock was more frustrated than ever, and there was nothing he could do about it.

It was as if the earth had swallowed John whole; like he was nowhere in this earth. Not one clue of his whereabouts in eight months. If John had been missing for two and a half years before Sherlock came back, why hadn't Molly informed him of this? He would have dropped everything and come back instantly to look for him. He thought he could count on her.

There was also the fact that Molly has also been missing for a little over eighteen months now.

Sherlock was sure that both of their disappearances were connected. Maybe there was someone else that he didn't know about from Moriarty's web, and they had taken John and Molly in order to get information about Sherlock. Molly had worked alongside Sherlock for some time now, so maybe she could provide them with a clue of where Sherlock was.

His phone rang and he growled. It was probably Lestrade calling because they needed him for a case. Didn't he understand that he couldn't take any cases at this moment?

"I told you, I'm not taking any cases right now," he spat out, "I thought you out of all people would understand."

"Look, I know Sherlock, but I really need you on this one. The murders don't make any sense. It's almost as if something non-human attacked them." Lestrade explained, "please, can you just come and take a look?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes but agreed to anyways. Maybe he needed to focus on something else for a bit. He got his scarf and coat and headed out. When he arrived at the crime scene, there were military men around. This reminded him too much of the Baskerville case. He almost couldn't bear it.

He got out and headed to where Lestrade was standing. He then noticed Mycroft talking to him.

"Mycroft, what are you doing here?" he demanded to know.

"Why, brother, when a case like this comes up, the government has to get involved," he simply said.

"Of course, since you now admit you _are _the British government, getting your noses into things like this,"he said as he walked to the crime scene with Lestrade and Mycroft trailing behind him.

"What do you think?" asked Lestrade.

There were three dead bodies on the ground. All men, ages 33-36, one of them a surgeon judging by his hands. The other a teacher and the last one worked in an office. As he observed, he saw that these weren't normal murders, no. It didn't look like humans had done this. An animal of some sort, maybe? Still, the way they seemed to have been murdered seemed strange. No blood or bruises, but they couldn't have died of strokes or anything like that there were no signs. It had to be a creature of some sort. Some type of…

"Sir, we've got him" he heard someone say.

He turned and saw a black woman dressed in a dark uniform. Sherlock had seen her before

"What, who do you have?" asked Lestrade.

"You mean that man who you said could help us with this, Martha?" said Mycroft to her.

"Yes. We were able to contact him and he's arrived. He can help us, I'm sure," she replied.

Sherlock was now interested in this man. How was she so sure that he could be able to help? Surely this man couldn't be more clever than him.

"Well, bring him then," said Mycroft.

"Oh, hello!" came a voice from behind them. They all turned around and saw a short, blond man in a familiar jumper, standing behind them.

"Sir, this is The Doctor," said Martha.

This all seemed surreal. After years of having disappeared, John Watson stood there with a grin on his face.


End file.
